


all your stanzas and all your lines

by GreenyLove



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Flashbacks, Flower metaphors, Fluff, Getting Back Together, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Memories, Mild Language, Miscommunication, Non-Linear Narrative, Nonbinary Kozume Kenma, Other, POV Akaashi Keiji, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Poetry, Post-Break Up, Post-Timeskip, References to Depression, They/Them Pronouns for Kozume Kenma, Trans Tsukishima Kei, Unresolved Romantic Tension, author is not an archeologist, more archeology facts than strictly necessary, set in 2020 but covid does not happen, side: bokurodai, side: bokuroo, side: kenhina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27246082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenyLove/pseuds/GreenyLove
Summary: The postcard.He shutters his gaze and picks it up. The paper is ivory, thick and textured; it is likely pressed by hand. On the front side is the rendering of a delicately preserved flower, below which is a small typeset label with its name and meaning. On the back are his name and address and a handwritten note.It’s postmarked from Surakarta. The handwriting is cramped and familiar. It aggravates the badly healed hole in his chest.He hasn’t heard from Tsukishima Kei in seven months.(Akaashi receives seven postcards and gains some much-needed insight into the shy, uncertain heart of Tsukishima Kei.)
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Tsukishima Kei
Comments: 31
Kudos: 69





	all your stanzas and all your lines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mayuuunaise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayuuunaise/gifts).



> this is a gift for [mayuuu](https://twitter.com/_mayuuunaise)! thank you so much for the lovely prompt! and for your patience and enthusiasm as it all came together :))
> 
> sincere thanks to [systemic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Systemic/pseuds/Systemic) for the beta and the cheering while i hurted myself writing this.
> 
> Title from poem “Pupil” by D.A. Powell.

In the twenty-two months, which I perceive  
lie in the direction of the past  
I have linked these pieces on paper with mineral ink  
(they flicker with me,  
everyone feels them simultaneously)  
each chain of shadow and light,  
mental sketches as they are,  
which have kept until now.

— from “proem” by miyazawa kenji

  
  


#

**Ueno District, Tokyo  
** **Late March, 2020**

The sun is long gone by the time Akaashi arrives home. The keypad beeps and lets him into the lobby of his apartment building. It’s dark except for a small lamp on a table near the mailboxes, yellow-orange light glowing softly on the brass plating. The lamp is newer than the furniture around it, acquired and installed by his kindly landlady in an effort to accommodate the grueling sleepless schedules of her younger tenants. Akaashi balances his stack of manila envelopes and folders in one arm, and thumbs through his keys for the square one that opens his mailbox. 

Inside, a rolled up magazine cradles a few bills and a single postcard addressed to Akaashi Keiji, from Tsukishima Kei. 

He stands unmoving in the lobby, stares until kanji swim across cardstock. A car honks somewhere farther up the street. Akaashi shoves the postcard deep in the middle of his file stack, climbs three narrow flights of stairs, and lets himself into the two bedroom apartment at the end of the hall. 

His bag goes on the arm chair. His files go on the table. Instead of flipping on the coffee machine and proofing another ten pages, he walks down the hall, past the closed door and into the former home office that now houses his new twin-sized bed. 

He peels off his sweater, crawls under the comforter, and stares at the wall until he falls asleep. 

The next morning, his alarm drags him awake. Fumbling across the pillow and nightstand, he finally digs his phone out of his pocket and groans at the time on the lock screen. If he wants a shower, he needs to get up now. If he does not shower, he will look as out of sorts as he feels. It will pull his focus away from his work if he starts wondering how much his associates can _perceive._

Things will spiral. There is an edge — beyond which lies despair — and Akaashi is adept at existing very close to the drop off. 

Five minutes, he allows, wallowing beneath the covers and inhaling the clean, blank smell of his pillow. Then he rises. 

Akaashi makes the bed, showers, and changes into clean pants and a plum button-up. He’s repacking his bag, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth, when a single square of paper flutters to the floor. 

The postcard. 

He shutters his gaze and picks it up. The paper is ivory, thick and textured; it is likely pressed by hand. On the front side is the rendering of a delicately preserved flower, below which is a small typeset label with its name and meaning. On the back are his name and address and a handwritten note. 

It’s postmarked from Surakarta. The handwriting is cramped and familiar. It aggravates the badly healed hole in his chest. 

He hasn’t heard from Tsukishima Kei in seven months. 

#

 **i. white violet  
** let’s take a chance on happiness

_(five small, white violet buds in various stages of bloom are arranged in a gentle curve from youngest to most mature. delicate green stems and leaves spread behind the white petals like ink stains. they appear as snapshots of a single life, joined together by a fragile thread.)_

  
  


**Nagamachi-eki, Sendai** **  
****Early Fall, 2014**

The beginnings of autumn chill the city. Tsukishima waits for him just outside the train station, dressed in a pine green cardigan with a beige scarf wrapped up around his chin. The chunky knit makes him look uncharacteristically soft. His usual headphones are absent; perhaps he fidgets because of it. The furrow between his brow eases when he spies Akaashi through the crowd — a detail that presses a larger-than-usual smile into Akaashi’s cheek. 

“Tsukishima-kun,” he greets warmly. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” 

The tall teenager pockets his phone and shrugs. “My train was late. I just got here.”

Akaashi reaches for his hand, slides their palms together and squeezes gently. He is not typically the type for public displays of affection. The weight of Tsukishima’s hand is somehow more intimate than running boldly into his arms. He feels the first date jitters in the tremble of his thumb. 

He knows this is Tsukishima’s first serious relationship. Akaashi does not take for granted how lucky he is. The urge to cling and coddle is there, but Tsukishima is not the kind of bird to flourish in a suffocating grip. Instead, Akaashi makes himself with a non-threatening posture for Tsukishima to alight on his arm.

“Shall we eat first?” Akaashi suggests. 

“I’m not hungry yet.” Tsukishima glances up at the nearby street signs and sets off to the left. He does not drop Akaashi’s hand. “There’s a book market nearby. I want to buy you something.” 

“Oh?” 

“You can buy me something, too. And then we trade gifts.” The crosswalk goes blue. The crowds spill forward and Tsukishima guides them along. Akaashi is more than content to watch his profile and observe the way a blush streaks highlighter pink across his cheeks. “Sugawara-san suggested it.” 

He imagines Tsukishima approaching Sugawara, tugging on his fingers as he asks his upperclassman for dating advice. It’s impossible to keep the fondness from his voice. 

“I would love that. Where do we start?” 

Tsukishima leads them to a street lined with bookstores; national chains with neatly ordered shelves and smaller outlets with stacks of reprints that sway above their heads. In a family-owned store with mismatched shelves and section labels handwritten in beautiful calligraphy, Akaashi finds a small collection of essays by Edward Morse. He’s entirely unfamiliar with Western archeology, but something about the black and white diagrams and unembellished cover reminds him of Tsukishima. 

He sneaks to the register and pays with a polite bow, slips the book into his inside pocket, and goes to find his boyfriend.

The shop’s irregular lighting leaves blocky squares of light amidst the narrow aisles. He finds Tsukishima in one such spot, squinting through his glasses at the volume in his hands. The urge to photograph him swells up in Akaashi’s chest. It’s a dreamy shot: blonde curls luminous around his face, his body tall and lean yet humbled by the quantity and agelessness of books surrounding him. It has his heart squeezing into his throat. 

But he stumbles and his moment passes as Tsukishima straightens and snaps the book shut.

“This one,” he says quickly. As he turns towards Akaashi, he shoves the book into his sweater and folds his arms across the lump. “I’m getting you this one. Don’t peak!” 

“It’s no use,” Akaashi sighs, stepping aside to let Tsukishima through. Their arms brush as he edges past. “As a literature major, I can name every book on sight.” 

Tsukishima’s eyes flash. “Seems like an unfair advantage.” 

“You do thrive under pressure.” 

“I — right.” There’s a small line at the register. Tsukishima clears his throat. “Could you go wait outside?” 

Akaashi offers him a smile. “Of course, Tsukishima-kun.” 

A few streets away, they find a small cafe with outdoor seating. Across the street is a greenway that slopes down towards the river. Sendai Bay is out of sight behind the skyline but the breeze smells like the ocean in a cleaner way than it does in Tokyo. They order cappuccinos and exchange purchases with tentative smiles and little fanfare. 

Tsukishima’s eyes widen as he accepts the essay collection. He thumbs through it, traces long fingers across the English paragraphs. It occurs to Akaashi that he doesn’t know how comfortable his young boyfriend is reading in English. Didn’t Kuroo say he was in the college preparatory class at Karasuno? That doesn’t guarantee mastery. Everyone has their poorer subjects. What if he’s secretly dyslexic? What if — 

Eager, honey-colored eyes glance up at him. Stop his thoughts and steal his breath. “I’ve never read any of his writings in English. Thank you, Akaashi-kun.” 

Stunned, it takes him a moment to clear his throat and say _you’re welcome_ in return. 

His gift from Tsukishima is a thick, finely bound book of poetry. _The Collected Works of Miyazawa Kenji (1896-1933)._ The type is small, paper lightweight and membranous. It smells very strongly of dust. He loves it immediately.

Tsukishima shifts anxiously, metal chair creaking underneath him. “If you already have that one, we can return it.” 

“No!” Akaashi says quickly, holding it protectively against his chest. “It’s perfect. I’m going to read it and send you my favorites. If that’s okay?” 

His date hides a smile behind the rim of his mug. “I would enjoy that.” 

They pass the rest of the afternoon in unhurried conversation. Akaashi is not one for public displays of affection but when they walk along the river and the sky goes sunset soft, he cannot resist catching Tsukishima’s chin and tugging him down for a gentle kiss. They are both red-faced for a long time after. Akaashi’s flush renews at the station when Tsukishima swoops down and presses his lips fleetingly against his own right as the southbound train arrives. 

Akaashi touches his fingertips gingerly to his mouth and holds his new book against his chest the entire ride home. 

#

**Present Day**

There is no time to think about the postcard. As soon as Akaashi steps off the elevator and into Shounen Vai’s Tokyo branch, Yuna nearly accosts him. She grips a roll of paper towels like a lifeline, or perhaps a weapon. 

“Akaashi-san! There was — Udai-san, coffee.” She makes a vague sweeping gesture with her free hand.

He counts backwards from ten. “Again?” 

“I told him to keep it in the breakroom, but he insisted his new travel mug was spillproof.” Falling into stride as they walk towards the shared office, she holds up with paper towels in defeat. “It’s not.” 

“How much did we lose?” 

“Four pages.” 

Akaashi has seen worse. He thinks of the coming week, adjusting the schedule for their deliverables, and begins composing an apologetic email to the printers. When they reach the office door, he gives Yuna as kind of a smile as he can presently muster. “I’ll take those, Yuna-san. Please take a moment to yourself. Perhaps get some fresh air?” 

“Thank you,” she sighs. She looks crestfallen as she scurries off. Akaashi resolves to buy her lunch. 

He enters the office to find Udai crouched on his chair, forehead pressed against his knees. He looks up when the door clicks shut and pales. 

“Please, please forgive me, Akaashi-kun! The label said spillproof!” 

Akaashi sets the paper towels on the corner of Udai’s desk. Across the room, his other assistant editor — Ito — stops typing to watch. For a moment the only sound is the _plink_ of coffee as it drips off the edge of the desk into the larger puddle on the floor. 

“You have a one day extension, Udai-san. Please use it wisely.” 

Ito jumps back to work when Akaashi glances his direction. Udai solemnly tears off a handful of towels and crawls onto the floor. 

Akaashi goes to his desk, clicks on his computer. The calendar tacked to the wall displays an exceptionally busy week, made worse already in the ten minutes he’s been in the building. He pours out his pen cup and reorganizes them as he waits for his desktop to boot up. There is no time to chew on the thought of the postcard left on his dining room table. 

And yet. 

Why? 

Tsukishima’s note was innocuous enough. 

_I found a bookseller here with Japanese editions. Did you like the latest Tawara? I almost bought it, but who would I send my favorite lines? I bought these postcards instead. Saito is an irregular taskmaster. My days are nothing but waiting. I think it’s making me restless. I hope you are well._

It doesn’t read like a prank, but more like something Tsukishima wrote but did not mean to send. Akaashi tries to picture him in a tent on-site in Indonesia, glaring at the moths on the netting around his cot. Angry at himself for letting such a vulnerable letter out of his hands and into the post box. 

Should the thought of his ex-boyfriend’s anguish make Akaashi happy? Or sad? 

He takes Udai’s newest pages — the coffee-free ones — from the tray on his desk and clicks open a tab to the modern Japanese dictionary. He doesn’t not allow himself to think about the postcard that day, or the next day, or the day after that. 

He also does not throw the postcard away. 

The week grinds by. 

Udai’s eccentricities send them into a crunch worse than usual. Akaashi camps at the empty desk across from him and edits pages as the frantic man passes them over. Finally, the completed chapter is proofed and shoved in an envelope under the design department’s door. On the train home, Akaashi pulls out his phone and gives everyone the morning off. 

He trudges into the lobby. The lamp is still on but the sky behind him is already a smokey predawn grey. He grabs his mail without looking and falls asleep with one shoe still on. 

He finds two more postcards in the morning. 

#

**ii. lily of the valley  
** you have made my life content

_(two elegant lilies of the valley lay like parenthesis atop a broad, yellowing fern leaf. the stamin are nearly translucent in their dehydrated state. despite their fragility, they exude joy.)_

**Ueno District, Tokyo  
** **Summer, 2017**

There’s a crash in the kitchen. Akaashi rubs his eyes wearily and calls out, “Please be careful, Bokuto-san.” 

Kuroo waltzes into the apartment, a box hefted over his shoulder. He kicks the door shut behind him. “No worries, Akaashi, we’ll have this place unpacked in no time.” 

“Speed is not my concern,” he replies, less gently than the previous two reminders.

Kuroo plops his load down on the growing barricade surrounding Tsukishima, who refuses to let anyone else unpack his research materials. A boundary that Akaashi understands and even admires from where he works across the living room, knee deep in his own dozen stacks of literary works and references.

Kuroo points to him. “You worry too much.” 

There is a suspiciously loud clatter. From the kitchen, Bokuto yells, “Everything’s fine!” 

Kuroo winces. “Need any help, Bo?” 

_“Don’t send Tsukki!”_

“I got this,” Kuroo says with a placating gesture. He hops his way across the cluttered room and slips through the doorway into the small kitchen. Frantic muttering and the sound of ceramic dishes clinking together are barely audible. Akaashi wonders how many plates they will have to replace. 

Tsukishima sighs. “Christ.” 

Stepping neatly over to his box fort, Akaashi leans down and kisses his forehead. 

Tsukishima scrunches up his nose. “I’m sweaty.”

“Yes,” Akaashi agrees, and kisses his forehead again. As if sweat has ever stopped him. 

They return to unpacking. Despite _moving day_ circled multiple times on his calendar at work, it is a little hard for Akaashi to believe that he is finally here. With his boyfriend, in this apartment they lease together. Ueno was their first choice: equidistant from Shounen Vai’s office and the Tokyo National Museum where Tsukishima begins an internship in the fall. Their building is old-fashioned but cozy, the landlady charming. He’s lived in Tokyo his entire life but this two bedroom, one bathroom sanctuary with its high ceilings and its tall windows is a space he cannot wait to fill with memories. 

And books. Between the two of them, there are plenty of books. 

Currently, Akaashi contemplates the bookshelf in front of him. Six feet tall with a warm cherry finish, it has just enough space to hold _most_ of the literature he has collected over the years. The literature presently in piles around his socked feet, because he can’t decide how to shelve them. By size? By genre? He’s seen pictures of aesthetic ‘shelfies’ with the books arranged by spine color, in gradients or in a rainbow. Perhaps that would be a fun experiment? 

He makes the easiest choice first. He collects all the titles Tsukishima has gifted to him over the last three years and arranges them on the top shelf. Right at eye level, so they are the first thing he sees when he walks into the room. 

Kuroo returns, a too-casual smile on his face. “So, Tsukki, how much did you love that brown mug?” 

“Which one?” Tsukishima’s eyes narrow. “The one with the stegosaurus? Or the one with the bear in the sweater?”

“Bo?” 

“Sweater bear!” comes the meek reply.

Tsukishima catches Akaashi’s eye. The younger pouts, mulish. The older raises his brow.

“Fine,” Tsukishima relents. “Just...leave the pieces on the counter. And if you break anything else,” he pitches his voice so it rings clearly through the room, “I will never top off your Resin again.” 

“O-Okay!” 

Kuroo folds his arms across his chest. “It’s creepy when you do that...coupley telepathy thing.” 

“Jealous?” Tsukishima simpers. 

“No,” Kuroo shoots back, flopping down on the couch. “I am content with my relationship status. I have my bro, I need no hoes.” 

On cue, Bokuto appears. He bounces on his feet with the kind of restlessness that suggests the kitchen is in no way unpacked, he is simply ready for something else. “Bro, I swear we don’t need hoes for the tele-thinking-thing! We aren’t dating and you read my mind last week.” 

“When?” 

“I thought _bring me a glass of water_ and then you did!” 

“Dude, you said that out loud.” 

“I did?”

“Could we please focus?” Tsukishima snaps. “I’d like to get everything out of the truck before it gets dark. I’m still missing at least two boxes labeled ‘field study’.” 

Kuroo inhales and on the exhale, points his steepled fingers at Tsukishima. “You cannot possibly have more rocks.”

“I’m a geoarchaeology major,” Tsukishima deadpans. “I have the rocks I have.” 

Bokuto holds out his hand and drags Kuroo back to his feet, shoving him towards the door with a smack between his shoulders. “Let’s go! We can practice telepathy. What am I thinking right now?” 

“That’s not how telepathy works.” 

They shut the door behind them, the sounds of their argument fading down the hall. Akaashi snorts, and then laughs. His hands stay at his side; he never hides his expressions when they’re alone. Tsukishima slumps over a box and buries his head in his arms. 

_“I have my bro,”_ he parrots. “How are they so oblivious?” 

Akaashi hums. He takes a seat on the floor across the makeshift cardboard table, resting his elbow near Tsukishima’s. He combs a hand idly through those handsome blonde waves. “Very sneaky, with your jealousy comment. I thought you were going to win.” 

The blonde’s voice is a muffled groan. “This bet was a horrible idea. There is no winning against the overwhelming force of their sheer denial. _”_

“At least,” Akaashi muses, “you don’t have to see them as often. Now that I have a much cuter roommate.” 

The flattery gets him a warm look from behind crooked glasses, honey eyes bashful but pleased. Tsukishima relaxes beneath Akaashi’s fingers, eyes closed with his cheek squished against his arm. “It’s fine,” he admits. “I just want them to be happy.” 

“Oh? College has softened you.” 

“ _College_ has nothing to do with it.” 

#

The note on the back of the postcard reads as follows: 

~~_Keiji_ ~~ _Akaashi-san,_

_I never told you how upset I was that day. I had no reason to be. We had an apartment. We were moving in together. I could finally be with you for all of my hours. But when that mug broke — It felt like an omen. I was so mad. Not at Bokuto. I was mad at myself. And the next morning, when you glued it back together? I brushed it off, but it meant everything._

_Why do the smallest things make me feel like the world is tilting sideways? Why can I only find the right words when I’m three thousand miles away?_

_This is pathetic. I hope you recycle these._

_—_ ~~_Kei_ ~~ _Tsukishima_

#

**iii. iris  
** your friendship means so much to me

_(three irises spread across the paper. the precise venation of their petals is reminiscent of synaptic nerves. from a certain angle they appear less like flowers and more like winged creatures frozen in the middle of flight.)_

**Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium  
** **January 2013**

Akaashi is out of breath, his cheeks are flushed pink from his brisk pace by the time he tracks down Karasuno to the upper level hallway where they regroup in melancholy silence. The loss against Kamomedai lurks in the shadows of their frowns. Every journey ends, Akaashi knows, but this elimination strikes him as particularly painful. In the horrified silence between Hinata’s knees hitting the floor and the referee’s whistle blowing, he _heard_ Karasuno’s spirit crack. Coaches and medics rushed onto the court, all eyes on Hinata — except Akaashi’s. His attention was elsewhere.

Sawamura Daichi is easy to spot. Akaashi approaches him and politely clears his throat. “Pardon me. Where can I find Tsukishima-san?” 

The captain regards him with tired, scrupulous eyes. He glances pointedly at the plastic bag hanging in Akaashi’s hand. 

Akaashi tightens his grip. “I brought the juice he likes. And ice for his foot.” 

“We have our own ice packs,” Sawamura points out, crossing his arms. 

A second figure approaches with more energy than Akaashi would expect. Sugawara swats his captain with the back of his hand, exasperation in his sigh, “Daichi, dial it back.” 

Copper eyes swing to Akaashi; it’s clear he’s assessing the younger setter. He must pass Sugawara’s criteria. The third year gives him a small smile and points over his shoulder. “Go ahead, Akaashi-san. He’s around the corner.” 

Akaashi nods gratefully and steps past the pair. He picks his way around members of Karasuno as they stretch, peel away athletic tape, or sit in exhausted silence. When he passes Azumane and can’t help but notice how his hand pets their sleepy libero’s head where it rests on his lap, he gives the ace a warm, fleeting smile and says nothing. 

In a smaller hallway, Tsukishima sits on a bench with his leg extended out in front of him, a damp black towel clenched in his fists. He wears his Karasuno track jacket zipped up to his neck, a sign he has already changed from his sports binder into something more comfortable. There’s a familiar gym bag at his feet. 

“Your leg should be elevated,” Akaashi says. 

“Yamaguchi went to find a medic.” If Tsukishima is surprised to see him, he doesn’t show it, eyes fixed on the middle distance. His posture is stiff, shoulders tight with discomfort. Entirely unlike the boy who held his hand in Saitama last summer and kissed him softly under the moon. “I think they’re busy, though.” 

_With Hinata_ goes unspoken between them.

Akaashi sits on the far end of the bench. Unzipping his own jacket, he folds it into a lumpy but serviceable square. He gestures to Tsukishima’s leg. “May I?”

It takes a bit of shifting to situate Tsukishima with his ankle and calf propped up, facing Akaashi on the bench. The stretch of his tendons makes the younger hiss through his teeth, but he doesn’t fight Akaashi as he gently feels along his calf and ankle. 

The silence is uneasy. “Where’s Bokuto?” Tsukishima asks. 

“He’s fine on his own.” Akaashi glances up from where his fingers prod the fine bones of his ankle. “Unless you wanted me to get him?” 

“No!” Tsukishima answers too quickly. “I don’t want to see him.” 

His tone startles Akaashi: dejected, hurting. A deep frown presses shadows around golden eyes. Akaashi reaches out to brush his fingers along the defined knuckles of Tsukishima’s fist. His fingers are still taped. 

“You could never disappoint him,” Akaashi says. “Or Kuroo-san, and certainly not me. Not by playing the way you did. Not by leaving your heart on the court.” 

Tsukishima rubs his eyes, glasses pushed above his brows, and gives him a wet, wobbling smile. “I didn’t want it to end.” 

Oh, this perfect boy. Akaashi smiles. “Things end. But things begin, too. I’m so, so proud of you, Tsukishima.” 

Overwhelmed, the blonde hides his face in his towel. Akaashi cracks an ice pack and holds the cold on his ankle. His other hand presses against the curve of Tsukishima’s calf, not rubbing, just a weight. By the time Tsukishima’s shoulders stop shaking, one hand is warm and the other numb with cold. 

“Last summer, I asked you to wait for me.” 

Tsukishima jerks up, eyes wide. Whatever he gleans from Akaashi’s own expression makes him flush. His voice is tight and scared. “Please don’t — not unless you mean it. I don’t want pity.” 

Akaashi sets the ice aside. He pulls a single bottle of juice out of the bag and holds it out between them. “It’s not very traditional,” he admits, half of a smile tugging at his lips, “but you should replenish your electrolytes.” 

Tsukishima’s eyes go shiny and wet. His voice cracks when he speaks. “Very sensible, Akaashi-san.” 

“Tsukishima Kei,” he says with reverence, “will you start something with me?” 

The blonde hides once more behind his towel. He giggles, then snorts, then laughs loudly from his chest. Akaashi scoots forward until he can sneak his fingers along Tsukishima’s jaw. He urges him up into the open and presses their mouths together. The first kiss is short. The second is longer. Their noses bump and they’re smiling too much, but Tsukishima holds his warm hand and his cold hand and Akaashi would change _nothing._

They are not alone. Around them, the Gymnasium clamors with sneaker squeaks, the thud of rubber, whistles, shouts, cheers. 

They are not alone. Then Tsukishima kisses him, and they are the only people in Tokyo. 

#

**Present Day**

The next morning, Akaashi is twenty one minutes late for work. He enters the office in a hurry right as Ito picks up the phone, presumably to report his death. Yuna is halfway out of her chair, mouth pinched in worry. 

“My apologies,” Akaashi says. He sits at his desk and punches the power button. The desktop stirs. 

Udai peers at him from above his large, cumbersome lap easel. “Did you watch a sad movie or something? You look miserable.” 

A quick glance at the clock, and then Akaashi slides the full brunt of his dispassionate gaze onto his manga-ka. “If I recall correctly, your one day extension ends in two hours.” 

Udai ducks his head, pencil moving furiously. 

Ito whistles and mutters, “Yikes.” 

Yuna rises and goes to make tea. 

Akaashi stares at his monitor as it warms. His fingers twist a paperclip out of shape until it snaps into two separate pieces. It is a quiet, miserable day. 

#

His phone rings as he’s primed to take the pizza out of the oven. He maneuvers dinner onto the stovetop and flaps one oven mitt off his hand in time to answer before it goes to voicemail. Bokuto begins speaking immediately. 

“Hey, hey, can we bring Daichi to movie night?” The nerves in his voice are detectable even through the phone. 

Akaashi turns off the oven and says in his most comforting tone, “Of course, Bokuto-san. You don’t have to ask each time. He is always welcome.” 

“Okay! Just checking. It’s still so new,” Bokuto admits. There is a dull distant roar that Akaashi recognizes as the train near the apartment that Bokuto leases with Kuroo and, as of recently, their newest partner. Bokuto waits for the train to pass before he continues, “We don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.”

Akaashi bites back a sigh. Bokuto is compassion incarnate, and he is humbled by his best friend’s dedication to his comfort. At the same time, Akaashi has been single for seven months. Too long for his friends to stay on their tiptoes; too long to save seats for a ghost haunting another country. 

He forces a smile even though he is alone. Only his aloe plant knows how much he needs the practice. 

“Daichi-san is too considerate to make anyone uncomfortable,” he reassures his friend. “An excellent counterbalance to your other beau.” 

Bokuto sighs, dreamy and fond. “Aren’t they the best?” 

“Indeed. Does Daichi-san like veggie supreme?” 

“Does that have olives on it?” 

Akaashi glances at the cooling pizza that does, in fact, have olives. “We will make do. See you soon.” 

He hangs up and leaves the pizza to cool. One last sweep of the living room reveals dust on the top of the television. He fetches a rag to take care of it. Anything to prevent himself from once again peeking between the pages of _The Collected Works_ where all three postcards hide like shameful secrets. 

He should recycle them. That’s what Tsukishima expects — and yet he continues to send them with no discernable goal beyond picking at emotional scabs. Akaashi cannot throw the postcards away. Not when Tsukishima’s strange overture back into his life feels incomplete. 

Maybe it will always feel like this. Maybe there is no possibility of closure. Some wounds are not meant to heal cleanly. Some bones must be broken before they can set. Is the confused yearning he feels when he walks by a postbox better than numbness? He can’t decide. 

He feels sweaty by the time he dusts the entire living room. He has enough time to splash cold water on his face and carefully pick all the olives off the pizza before a knock comes at the door. 

“It’s unlocked!” He tosses the olives, wipes his hands, and goes to greet his guests. 

“Akaashi-san!” Hinata trips through the door and traps Akaashi in an energetic hug. The redhead’s bright energy hasn’t dimmed at all in the many years of their acquaintance. It’s impossible not to hug back, if only to better maneuver him out of the way so Kenma has room to toe off their shoes. 

“Thank you for having us,” Kenma murmurs, handing off a box with a familiar black and white logo — the kanji for _Miya_ — stamped on the side. 

Akaashi’s eyes go wide. “Oh, Kenma,” he says, prying open one corner to inhale the smell of rice and heat. “You didn’t have to.” 

They glance sidelong, hands slipping into the front pouch of their hoodie. “So you’ll share some, then?” 

Akaashi frowns down at his treat. Kenma snorts, their smile small but real as their sunny boyfriend tugs them towards the TV.

Kuroo and Daichi follow close behind, clasped hands swinging between them. The glow of new love lights up their eyes. For all the years Bokuto and Kuroo spent dancing around each other, it took them less than four months after renting a room to Sawamura to open their relationship to the kind-hearted firefighter. Akaashi doesn’t know him well but already, he appreciates the way he brushes stray sakura blossoms off Kuroo’s shoulders with fondness in his steady eyes. 

Daichi holds out a small tote, inside which is nestled another box of Onigiri Miya. “I didn’t realize Kenma-san was bringing some as well,” he explains, sheepish. 

“I told you, this is why he agrees to host,” Kuroo says, shutting the door behind him. He hooks an arm around Daichi’s neck and rests his chin in his hair. “It’s all part of his nefarious plan.” 

“Ah,” Daichi says. His eyes crinkle good-naturedly. “Enjoy your spoils, Akaashi-san.” 

Akaashi accepts the tote with a grateful bow and says sincerely, “You are welcome any time.” 

Kuroo chuckles and nudges his boyfriend forward with the front of his thighs. The resulting waddle is slow and ineffective, but Daichi leans into it with a grin. Akaashi’s smile wilts at the edges. It hurts and it doesn’t. He takes his treats into the kitchen. 

Kenma is there, searching through the cabinet to the left of the stove. They already have the kettle on to boil. 

“Are you out of loose leaf, Keiji?” 

Akaashi points to the cabinet on the right. “Ah, it’s over here now. I rearranged a few things.” 

Kenma’s expression pinches, an almost undetectable furrow forming between their brows. Akaashi looks away, hiding the embarrassed flush of his cheeks. Moving around his tea and his spice collection felt significant at the time. 

The door opens and shuts again. Bokuto appears in the kitchen moments later, tossing his car keys on the counter and stepping forward to hug Akaashi in one practiced, fluid motion. Those large arms squeeze him so tight his ribs creak but Akaashi sinks into it and gives as good as he gets. Whatever best friend sense signaled the need for a hug also, thankfully, signals a need for silence. Bokuto doesn’t ask, he just smacks a loud kiss to the top of Akaashi’s head before releasing him. 

“Thanks for baking pizza, ‘Kaashi!” Bokuto waves at Kenma as he backs out of the kitchen, already redirecting his attention, presumably to his boyfriends. “Dibs on little spoon!”

“Uh, no?” 

“Please don’t roughhouse.” 

Daichi’s stern warning goes unheeded as Bokuto sprints out of view. There’s a shriek that could only come from Kuroo, a loud thud, and the sound of wrestling. The floor vibrates. Akaashi turns to intervene when Kenma catches his sleeve. 

A deep rumbling clearing of the throat. “Seriously? What did I just say?” 

Sheepish silence. 

Akaashi looks back at Kenma, who snickers at his confusion. _Met their match_ , they mouth and release his sleeve. When he enters the living room, he finds Kuroo and Bokuto on opposite ends of the couch with an exasperated Daichi sitting between them. 

“Do you two have something to say to our host?” Daichi asks. 

Kuroo slumps down, chin against his collar. “Sorry, Akaashi.” 

Bokuto hangs his head, hands pinned under his thighs. “Sorry, ‘Kaashi.” 

A toilet flushes and Hinata returns, wiping his hands on his jeans. “What did I miss?” 

#

Later, after the credits roll on _Road To El Dorado_ , Kuroo bullies them into _Pride & Prejudice _ when they are too collectively stuffed on pizza and junk food and wine coolers to argue out of it. Akaashi stares at the screen, unfocused and lost in his thoughts. A poke to his forearm startles him back into his own head. Bokuto retracts his arm across the space between the couch and the armchair, his face twisted in concern. 

“What’s wrong, ‘Kaashi?” 

If he was less sleepy and less buzzed, perhaps he would have brushed off his friend and kept his thoughts to himself. Instead, he curls his legs against his chest and sighs. “Should I try dating again?” 

Bokuto pauses, thoughtful. Behind him, Kuroo mouths silently along to all of Lizzy’s lines while Daichi dozes against his shoulder. Hinata and Kenma are curled like two cats in the other armchair, dead asleep. 

“Do you want to?” Bokuto finally asks. “Are you lonely?” 

“It’s been seven months.” 

“Not what I asked,” Bokuto points out, a small and exceptionally Kuroo-like grin on his face. He grows serious again, brows shrugging together. He considers each word, lines them up with an artist’s care. “Love doesn’t always understand time. I knew Tetsu for years and I loved him without knowing it. And then with Dai, I knew the whole time, and it only took a couple months to say something. One way isn’t more right than the other.” He shrugs one shoulder. “If you need more time, or if you don’t...both are fine, I think.” 

Akaashi is stunned silent, overwhelmed and touched by his wise and wonderful friend. No one deserves Bokuto Koutarou’s heart, and yet he has given it to two people. Akaashi feels his own heart is like a quailing mouse, shivering in the dark. 

“Do you miss Tsukki?” Bokuto asks softly. 

Akaashi swallows thickly. “I think...I will always miss him.” 

Bokuto chews nervously on his lip. “He’s gonna come back eventually, right? The excavation won’t last forever. What happens then?” 

Akaashi sits in the apartment they chose together, thinks of the boxes still in the bedroom he doesn’t touch. The mugs hidden under the sink, the postcards pressed between stanzas and lines Akaashi once sent to Tsukishima. The boy he loved and still loves. 

He read once that when you fall in love it carves a piece out of your heart. The piece belongs to the person you love and if they are lost, the hole remains. It cannot be filled by another.

“I don’t know, Bokuto-san,” he whispers, his eyes wet. 

Bokuto reaches out and squeezes his hand. He opens his mouth, but at that moment Hinata tries to roll over only to fall off the armchair and into the edge of the coffee table. Somehow, he hits the remote and sends the movie playing ahead at triple speed. Kuroo screams, Daichi jolts awake. Hinata sits up, clutching his face. Blood trickles from a cut above his brow. 

Akaashi excuses himself to find the first aid kit, grateful for the distraction. If he comes back from the hall closet with tear stains on his sleeves, no one says a thing until it’s time to leave. Bokuto hugs him again. 

“I’m here if you wanna talk more, okay?” he says, squeezing tight, tight, tight. 

Akaashi smiles against his shoulder. “Okay.” 

He says goodnight to his friends. He picks up the living room and turns off all the lights and goes to sleep in his cold, narrow bed. He scrolls back through his calendar, past archived meetings and work reminders and deadlines, until he arrives at a certain week in March. _Kei to airport, departure time 7:20 AM._

The reminder is marked resolved. Task completed. He locks his phone and spends the night dreaming restlessly of a door unlocked, a stove left on. 

He doesn’t text Bokuto when a fourth postcard comes. Not for lack of trying — he sits on the bathroom floor with his phone in one hand, thumb hovering over the message app. His breathing is wet. He cannot find the words.

#

**iv. tea rose  
** i remember it all

_(a radial spiral of coral pink petals fan out from the rose’s butter-yellow center. they cascade across the creamy paper like the layers of a ballgown. a few hints of dark green leaves can be seen around the edges. there is not a thorn in sight.)_

**Ueno District, Tokyo  
** **Spring, 2019**

Akaashi wakes up hours before his alarm to an empty bed. He rolls into the indent on Tsukishima’s side of the mattress, smothering his face in his rumpled pillow and inhaling the smell of lavender pillow mist. The sheets are still sleep-warm. Tsukishima hasn’t been up for long. 

Fumbling for his glasses and slippers, Akaashi hauls himself out of bed. He is not fond of mornings but Tsukishima is a terror before noon. He also never works on Fridays, so to be awake this early when it isn’t expected of him is unusual. 

He finds Tsukishima in the kitchen, dressed to leave the house. Two pieces of toast and jam sit untouched on a plate next to him. He’s waiting on the coffee machine, reading the news. He puts his phone face down when Akaashi comes in. 

“Morning,” Akaashi says, waddling over and slipping an arm around Tsukishima’s trim waist. He rests his face against his neck and sighs into his warmth. “You’re up early.” 

Dry lips find his forehead as Tsukishima’s hand settles on his hip. “Sorry. I got called in.” 

“Everything okay?” He doesn’t know enough about museums to know what kinds of emergencies might summon digital archives assistants like his boyfriend into work on a day off. 

The coffee machine beeps. Tsukishima doesn’t reach for it. “I got the field assistant position with Saito-san.” 

He gasps, pulling back far enough to tug Tsukishima into a proper hug, hands tight against his back. “Kei, that’s amazing!” He cups his jaw, brings that mouth down to his level for a long and soft kiss. 

When they part, he takes in the tightness around the other’s eyes. His thumbs swipe up to rub away frown lines. “Be excited, darling. Didn’t you think you’d get it?” 

“I would never assume — It’s a huge honor just to have been invited to interview.” Tsukishima scowls, chewing on words and finding only the wrong ones. “The excavation, it…” 

“Only for a few weeks, right?” 

Tsukishima swallows. He turns back to his toast and coffee, picking up a piece of bread only to immediately set it back down. “Longer.” 

“They changed the timeline?” 

“The museum’s contact in Surakarta reached out again. The tsunami changed things. The site itself is in rough shape. There’s months of digging before we could even get scanners down there to start rendering a model.” Tsukishima tears the toast into small pieces, uncaring of the jam that sticks to his fingertips. “Saito-san spun the whole trip into this huge funded _thing_ with an exhibit and publications showcasing the latest trends in cultural site analysis and preservation. The Board ate it up.” 

“How long?” 

“Eight to twelve.” 

“Weeks?” 

“Months.” 

The silence is a vacuum. There is not enough air to breathe. Akaashi thinks furiously. Tsukishima keeps talking. 

“I haven’t accepted yet.” He presses a tiny coin of bread and jam past his lips, chews and swallows like it pains him to do so. “But Saito asked me to come in today, to sign travel waivers and such. But I don’t — I don’t know if I want to accept.” 

_That_ startles Akaashi out of his silence. “This is your dream job, Kei, you need to go.” Tsukishima’s shoulders stiffen but Akaashi plows on. He rubs his shoulder with a shaky hand and forces a grin on his face. “At least you would be free from my impossible schedule for a while.” 

Tsukishima takes a long, silent sip of lukewarm coffee. He clears his throat, straightens his spine and summons his walls around him. “Maybe you’re right. It would be best for both of us.” 

“Kei?” 

The faucet drips. After years of steady courtship, Akaashi has seen Tsukishima muster his defenses before facing the daily parade of coworkers, supervisors, strangers, and friends that sap his limited energy. Akaashi is proud to be a welcomed visitor in the gardens behind these walls. 

“I need to finish getting ready.” Tsukishima scoots the plate of shredded toast towards him. “I’m not going to finish this.” 

Tsukishima walks past him, eyes unfocused. 

Akaashi remains rooted at the counter and feels the hollow clang of the garden gate shutting him out. 

#

Later, Akaashi will realize his mistake. His objectivity is unshakable, a blessing and a curse. 

Rationally, he knows that an excavation is only temporary, that Tsukishima will return, that physical distance and emotional distance aren’t inherently comorbid. He should have gone after Tsukishima, cradled his face and assured him that eight to twelve months was nothing. Their relationship started long distance. Were they not strong enough to endure?

He believes they are. And yet.

Doubt and selfishness circle like hungry wolves. Even years away from his teenage self, Tsukishima struggles with self-doubt. Akaashi knows — has joined his boyfriend for therapy sessions, hands clasped between their thighs on a soft leather sofa — he _knows_ he cannot prevent the storms in Tsukishima’s mind. He can only be a lighthouse guiding him home. 

He scrapes the toast into the bin, sets the plate in the empty sink with a too-loud clunk. His stomach is far too acidic to entertain the thought of food.

It’s not Tsukishima he doubts.

If Akaashi is a lighthouse and his light is so weak that Tsukishima fears to sail far from the shoreline, then isn’t it Akaashi who holds him back? 

The faucet runs in the bathroom, a drawer opens and shuts again. Akaashi grabs a clean mug and pours himself a dark, bitter drink. He doubts he can fall back asleep.

He doesn't chase after Tsukishima. He will not see until much later how the assumptions, the insecurities, the conversation never voiced have cracked the foundation. He will tell himself that it was only natural, then, that Tsukishima called it off and boarded his plane as a single man. A home with a fragile base is no home worth returning to.

He will tell himself to make peace with it. This is his second mistake.

#

**Present Day**

“God, I hate those meetings,” Udai grumbles as they shuffle into the elevator. He hits the button for their office floor, shooting one last departing glare at the acquisitions office as the doors slide closed. “So much fuss, just to be told to sit tight while bigwigs debate shit.” 

“I’m sure you have nothing to worry about,” Akaashi says. He locks his knees to prevent slumping against the elevator wall in exhaustion. Of course, their meeting was the final slot of the day. It will still make for an earlier night than most, but the adrenaline crash after weeks of storyboards and market research and long-winded back and forths with the design lead means Akaashi is ready to collapse. 

Udai is not. The grin he shoots Akaashi is concerningly feral. “You joining us for drinks? Ito owes me two shots. He said I wouldn’t remember to match my socks.” Tugging up his pant legs, Udai reveals his bare ankles. “I didn’t wear socks. Fucking sucker.” 

“Thank you for the invitation, but I’m quite eager to be home,” Akaashi says. The elevator dings and he motions Udai off first. “Perhaps another time.” 

The manga-ka frowns, but shrugs. “Okay, but next time, you gotta come with. Drinking with your coworkers is, like, the only good part of this rat race.” 

Akaashi offers promises that feel empty until Udai is satisfied — or distracted, by Ito and the matter of his socks. Collecting his things quietly, he nods farewell to his team and begins the trip home. 

The sun is only just setting. The trains are more crowded than Akaashi is used to. He finds a corner to squeeze into and zones out, his hand tight around the nearby pole. It’s been weeks since movie night but Bokuto’s advice swirls through his thoughts. There is great merit to his friend’s observations: perhaps love doesn’t understand time. That would explain why Akaashi’s heart aches like a bruise even after seven months. Soon, it will be eight months, and then nine — eventually, one year without Tsukishima. 

_He’s gonna come back eventually, right? What happens then?_

Akaashi leaves that thought on the train. 

The lamp is on when he steps into the foyer. It brings a small smile to his lips as he opens his mailbox. The sight of postmarked cardstock hits him like a gut punch. 

He nearly leaves, nearly locks his mailbox back up. Instead, he tips his face to the ceiling. Counts his breaths in and out. A single tear drips past his ear. 

With a shuddering inhale, he collects his mail. There are two postcards. There is a cushioned bench across from the stairs. He sits and he reads. 

#

**v. red carnation  
** my heart aches for you

_(three wilted stems lay in a line across the page, thin leaves withered and curled as though braced against an outside force. only the center flower blooms, a hint of dark red spilling out of the bud.)_

**Nakamise Shopping Street, Asakusa, Tokyo  
** **Christmas Eve, 2017**

It begins to snow around sunset. Kenma and Hinata meet them at the main gates. Kenma is nearly unrecognizable in their huge down parka with its fur-lined hood, mittens shaped like cat paws, and thick woven socks pulled up past their knees. In contrast, Hinata is wearing nothing heavier than a neon green ski jacket and matching ear warmers. He holds Kenma’s hand as he bounces on his tiptoes, catching snowflakes on his tongue. 

“Hello.” Akaashi smiles, waving with the hand that isn’t clasped in Tsukishima’s.

Tsukishima frowns. “That’s not sanitary,” he tells Hinata, shrinking deeper into his own scarf. “Aren’t you freezing?” 

“I never get sick!” Hinata chirps, right as Kenma grumbles, “He never gets sick.” 

Akaashi glances around. The street outside the shrine bustles despite the late hour, revelers drawn by the festive lights and music and merrymaking. “Should we wait for Bokuto and Kuroo?” 

Tsukishima rolls his eyes. “Like they’ve learned to tell time.” 

The prospect of waiting does not sit well with Hinata. “Come on, come on,” he says, tugging on Kenma's hand and pouting until his shivering joyfriend relents. “We can just text them and tell them where to meet us!” 

Akaashi fishes out his phone. “Lead the way, then.” 

It gets dark rapidly, the sky clear and cold above them. Strings of lights and lanterns glow warmly, lighting the street beyond the main gate like another world of golden candle flames and foggy white air. Snow flurries between the stalls, blown off canopies and roofs by the wind. 

All along the main row between the gate and the shrine are shops with gifts, vendors with food, carts of warm drinks. With the important gift-shopping already done, Akaashi is content to wander and windowshop. Maybe he will grab something decorative and nice for the office. But such thoughts are all secondary to the comforting warm weight of Tsukishima’s gloved hand in his own. 

Less than ten minutes after their stroll begins, Bokuto finds them. He jogs through the crowd in mismatched mittens, a slouchy hat smooshing down his hair. Kuroo is nowhere in sight. 

“Ah, sorry! I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

Akaashi folds him into a one-armed hug. “You’re fine, Bokuto-san. We haven’t been wandering for long.” 

“Where’s Kuroo?” Tsukishima asks. 

Bokuto chews his lip, visibly distressed. They pass a vendor selling skewers of cranberry-glazed yakitori and he doesn’t react at all. Alarm bells go off. 

“What’s wrong?” Akaashi asks, pulling them under a nearby awning where they can talk in peace. “Did something happen?” 

“We had a fight.” 

It pains Akaashi to see his friend upset, on a holiday no less. Tsukishima shifts beside him, clearly uncomfortable. This is not the kind of gossip he enjoys hearing and Akaashi can empathize. But still, he asks, “Would you like to talk about it?” 

Bokuto sighs. “Nah.” He takes off his hat and ruffles his hair before shoving it back on his head. “Not gonna bring down the mood. Let’s go look at stuff!” 

Nearby, Kenma murmurs, “It’s too cold, Shouyou.” 

“I’ll get us some of that mulled wine stuff!” Hinata grins and bounds off, a puppy playing fetch. 

Akaashi smiles down at his sniffly friend. “Do you even like mulled wine?” 

“No,” Kenma sighs, completely smitten.

The group ambles onwards. Hinata returns with one cup of wine, one mostly empty cup, and a fragrant stain on his jacket. Bright lights glitter off the snow; the smell of pine and cinnamon hangs heavy in the air. They pass stalls with dolls, charms, silk fans, and a variety of seasonal imports. Tsukishima and Kenma get distracted looking at snowglobes while Akaashi spends a long time perusing a stand of loose leaf teas. Bokuto trails after him, poking dejectedly at the packages. 

Akaashi waits, patient as a saint. Finally, Bokuto sighs. “What do you do when Tsukki gets mad at you?” 

“We both need our space,” Akaashi says thoughtfully, checking the label on an earl grey blend. “But we always talk it out before going to bed, before we get too lost in our own thoughts.” 

Bokuto scratches the back of his head. “I bought Kuroo and I tickets to an onsen in Sapporo.” 

“That’s…a very romantic gift, Bokuto-san.”

“I didn’t — I just thought that — this is the first holiday without his grandmother,” Bokuto explains haltingly. His lip is bitten dark pink. Akaashi resolves to find him some chapstick. “He’s kind of alone.” 

A gentle nudge with his elbow. “He has you, Bokuto-san.” 

“Exactly! Except he wasn’t acting like he wanted to spend any time with me at all even though we’re best friends! I booked us this bro trip because I thought it would be nice to get out of the city for New Years and he just — stormed out!” He buries his face in his hand and groans in frustration. “And now I have to find him a different present for tomorrow.” 

Akaashi can’t help but grin, helpless. He adores his foolish friends. “Shall we go ask the others for help?” 

Bokuto peeks out from behind his gloves. “Okay.” 

He pays for his tea and together, they find the group. Akaashi briefly explains the objective: help find a gift for Kuroo. Hinata immediately has roughly ten ideas; his infectious enthusiasm soon has Bokuto grinning wider and wider. The two disappear into the crowd, Kenma shuffling after with their wine clasped in their mitten-paws. Tsukishima blows hot air into his own cupped hands. His earmuffs are huge and fluffy on either side of his head. He looks lovely and golden, pale and rosy. It takes all of Akaashi’s self control not to kiss his reddening nose. 

Tsukishima catches his gaze and looks away, self-conscious. “Is there something on my face?” 

“No. I’m just admiring the view.” 

“Surely you’ve seen all my face has to offer.” 

“I don’t think that’s how things work,” Akaashi muses. He links their arms and they start walking again, with no real reason or purpose. Tsukishima leans against him, perhaps without realizing it. “Unless you are bored of my face?” 

“I’d have to see it more often,” Tsukishima shoots back without thinking, only to twist around, horrified. “Wait, that’s not how I meant — I don’t-!” 

Something tightens around Akaashi’s chest. He grabs Tsukishima’s hands where they tug on the fingers of his gloves. “My new hours have been hard for you.” It isn’t phrased like a question. 

“Yes,” Tsukishima admits with a wince. “But please don’t worry, or apologize. You work so diligently. You’re the youngest associate editor at Vai.” 

He recites these facts like a list of well-worn reassurances, dusted off every time he is home alone while Akaashi works late. As the youngest associate editor, he is also the busiest associate editor. Lowest of the pecking order, the one with the most to prove and the most to lose in an industry that is always crunched for time. Akaashi’s own insecurities bully out of the box he shoves them into. Despite their apathetic affects, he knows both himself and Tsukishima are too earnest, too quick to swallow down blame where there shouldn’t be any. 

Akaashi cups his face, smooths his knitted thumb across the snowflakes melting on his cheek. “I’m sorry, my love.” He rapidly thinks through his schedule. He has the next couple days off, but then it’s back to early mornings and late nights, unless — “I’ll take off an extra day, before your semester starts. We can stay in, maybe watch that new shark documentary.” 

“I would like that,” Tsukishima murmurs. He hesitates, but continues. “Doesn’t...it worry you? After I graduate, I will only get busier. It will only get harder.” He inhales, squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, the desolation there is jarring. “If you ever don’t want me anymore-!” 

“Kei.” Akaashi cuts him off. The tightness around his chest constricts to the point of pain. He grabs Tsukishima by the shoulders and squeezes tight. “I loved you when we lived four hours apart. I love you even more now that I can come home to you and you can come home to me.” 

Uncaring of the strangers around them, he pulls him down into a kiss on the edge of indecence. His heart aches. He has to do more, do better, so this beautiful boy never feels so sad again. 

“I love you too,” Tsukishima says softly when they pull apart. His cheeks are flushed from more than the cold. He begins to say something, but stops when he spies the small giftbag hanging off Akaashi’s arm. “What’s that?” 

Akaashi coughs. “Oh, nothing of consequence. Shall we find the others?” 

He begins to edge away but Tsukishima catches him — curse those long limbs. The blonde snakes a hand into the bag and pulls out a box of oolong. “Is this _more tea?_ Keiji, where is this going to go?” 

“In the tea cabinet,” Akaashi explains. 

_“Cabinet?_ You were given a single shelf!” 

He laughs and twists away, snatching the oolong back. Tsukishima looks pissed except for the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Akaashi tucks his tea away and reaches for his hand. “Come on, we can debate tea storage later.” 

Tsukishima pouts but doesn’t refuse his hand. “You’re not getting an entire cabinet.” 

“Later, my love,” Akaashi soothes, a wide smile on his face. 

They find Kenma first, hovering as close to an outdoor heater as they can without breaking fire safety codes. They hold a cloth sack in one hand and pluck out cinnamon toasted almonds with another. Silently, they offer the sack to Tsukishima, who immediately indulges. 

“Did we lose the other two?” Akaashi asks, only somewhat serious. Since the two began dating a few months ago, Hinata has never strayed more than twenty feet from Kenma. 

Almost on cue, the redhead runs up. He loops an arm through Kenma’s and clings. “Hey, I was with Bokuto and we found some super neat presents but then Kuroo!” He fishes for words and, finding none, simply points behind him. As one, they follow his finger. 

It’s hard to miss Bokuto in a crowd — even with his hair covered, he’s simply too big. Broad and tall with the build of a lifelong athlete that winter clothing cannot disguise. They spot him standing to the side of Hozomon gate, black and gold lanterns regal behind him. His arms are filled with shopping bags — far, far too many gifts for any one person. 

Kuroo faces him, hands in his pockets. They are too distant to hear their conversation, but the look on Kuroo’s face is clear. He stares at Bokuto like his features have rearranged to reveal a person he’s never seen but never wants to lose sight of again. It has Akaashi leaning his shoulder against Tsukishima, glancing up to whisper, “I think it’s finally happening.” 

Golden eyes go wide. “Right now?” 

“In front of my almonds?” Kenma adds. For as flat as they sound, those feline eyes watch Kuroo anxiously. 

Bokuto gestures to the bags on his arms. He laughs and Akaashi can hear the self-deprecation. Kuroo says nothing so Bokuto continues, trying to reach inside one of the bags but getting hopelessly tangled in his scarf along the way. Kuroo hides his face, shoulders shaking. 

Bokuto freezes. The audience holds their breath. 

Kuroo’s laughter echoes through the air. He drops his hands, peels off his gloves, splays his fingers on either side of Bokuto’s square jaw. Whatever he says has wetness flooding Bokuto’s wide eyes. 

Kuroo asks a question. Bokuto nods. Joy breaks across their faces. It’s impossible to say who kisses whom. One moment, they stare at each other in amazement, and the next, they kiss before the gods and spirits, presents crushed and forgotten between them. 

Hinata hoots, pumping a fist skyward. Kenma hides a grin behind their hand. 

“Come on,” Akaashi says through the joy in his own throat. When did his eyes get wet? He turns to herd the others away, off in the opposite direction. “Five minutes of privacy, and then we can tease them.” 

Tsukishima hums. “I don’t remember the terms of our bet. Did we win?” 

Glancing back at the new loves where they embrace, Bokuto pecking kisses all over Kuroo’s blissful face, Akaashi shakes his head. “I’d say they are the winners. They won each other. That’s what matters most.” 

He stops Tsukishima with a tug on his hand, leaning up to press another kiss against his red mouth. “I can relate.” 

Tsukishima hugs him, face buried in his scarf. Akaashi squeezes back and shivers against the chill. 

#

**vi. purple hyacinth  
** sorrow 

_(The buds lay flattened, petals crushed together as though ground down under significant pressure. Its gradients and beautiful details are lost within the violet splatter. Brownish-black stems and leaves cover the page behind the petals; from a distance it appears not like a flower but like a smear of gasoline on wet pavement.)_

**Narita International Airport, Tokyo  
** **Fall, 2019**

Boarding announcements ring through the air above the clatter of luggage wheels and the beep of security scanners. Akaashi hardly hears any of it. He sits across from Tsukishima at a cramped table near the vending machines in the large white and grey lobby and forces himself to take another sip of tasteless black tea. Tsukishima’s can of coffee is untouched. 

_Good afternoon, passengers. This is the pre-boarding announcement for flight 1082 to Singapore. We invite passengers with small children and any passengers requiring special assistance to begin boarding at this time. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready. Regular boarding will begin in approximately fifteen minutes time. Thank you._

“That’s my flight,” Tsukishima states, as though Akaashi doesn’t feel the finality of those words fall like a curtain between them. 

They both stand up. Tsukishima clears his throat and doesn’t look at him. “Thank you for waiting with me.” 

“It’s no trouble.” Akaashi shouldn’t fuss over him, not when their relationship had been so politely ended that night before, but it spills out of him regardless of how desperately he clutches at the wound. “You have your boarding pass? Saito will meet you at the gate?” 

Tsukishima tucks his phone into his pocket. “He’s on the concourse now.” 

They toss their drinks and walk in silence towards the security gate. Akaashi stares up at the jumbotron. He watches departures and arrivals scroll past without seeing. A gentle touch on his arm startles him. 

Tsukishima jerks his hand back, itches anxiously at his knuckles. Akaashi wants to scream. 

“You can’t follow me past the security gate,” Tsukishima says. 

“Of course,” Akaashi replies, voice hoarse. “Safe flight.” 

“Thank you.” Tsukishima hovers. “I moved the last few boxes into the bedroom closet, but if they are in the way Yamaguchi offered to pick them up.”

“It’s fine, K-.” Akaashi chokes around his given name. “I’m sure I can manage. Please don’t worry about me.” 

For a long, awful moment, Tsukishima pins him like a butterfly under an indecipherable stare. Akaashi digs into his deepest reservoir of strength and drags up a watery smile. 

“Good luck, Tsukishima-san.” 

The golden boy bows, shoulders stiff. “Goodbye, Akaashi-san.” Mouth a thin line, he extends the handle of his small carryon and wheels it towards security. 

Akaashi doesn’t wait, doesn’t will that Tsukishima turn around or come running back into his arms. If there was a time to change minds, it was weeks ago. There are no more fights, no more yelling, no more heartfelt pleas left inside of him. Just a plastic veneer between his shredded insides and reality. For a moment, he has the urge to wail his sorrow out loud and beat his fists against the shell until it breaks. Maybe then he could scream: _come back, I need you, come back._

The jumbotron ripples and rolls. 

_1082 SINGAPORE — NOW BOARDING._

Akaashi turns away. He stops by the bathroom to wipe his eyes and blow his nose, and then goes to catch the train. 

#

The note on the back of the postcard reads as follows:

_Keiji,_

_I spent the layover in Singapore crying in the hotel bathroom. I took the SD out of my phone so I wouldn’t text you. What good would it have done?_

_Here is a list of things I wanted to say:_

  * _I’m not thankful you drove me to the airport. I’m not happy you waited with me. I’m angry._
  * _You are so beautiful in the morning._
  * _I don’t give a flying fuck about the boxes in the closet. Why did you let me store things there in the first place? You’re supposed to toss your ex’s things in the dumpster. You let me keep taking and taking and taking from you. Stop me. I don’t deserve your kindness._
  * _I love you almost as strongly as I detest myself._
  * _I’m sorry._



_— Kei_

#

**Present Day**

The landlady finds him on the bench, sniffling into his hands and two shaky inhales away from a complete breakdown. She tuts and smooths back his hair, palm against his forehead to check for fever. She doesn’t blink twice at the sight of her tenant crying in the foyer but instead sighs with the weariness of a woman who has extensive experience with emotional men. 

“Young people work too hard these days,” she says, a smile pressing into the wrinkles on her cheeks. 

She unlocks the door to her small apartment and comes back out with a small turquoise canister decorated with sakura blossoms. She twists it open to reveal hard candies, shiny as gemstones, nestled in a piece of facial tissue. 

“Take one,” she urges. “Let it melt on your tongue. Your troubles will melt away too.” 

With a wet smile, Akaashi unsticks a sunny yellow piece and slips it into his mouth. It explodes in a sweet rush of lemon. 

“I’m grateful for your kindness,” he says. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me,” she chides, patting his arm. “Get a therapist. Talk to your friends. You are a smarter boy than this.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” He bows deeply. She waves him off and disappears back into her apartment with a good natured chuckle. 

Akaashi climbs the stairs feeling lighter. By the time he reaches his door, the candy is nothing more than a tiny shard of sugar beneath his tongue. He grinds it to dust beneath his teeth, then texts the group chat.

> **akaashi keiji:** pardon me, would you all like to come over for dinner? i need to talk.

His phone vibrates as the kettle comes to a boil. 

> _6 new messages from:_ **_house of hot dudes (plus kuroo)_ **
> 
> **bokuto:** hell yeah we got this!! 
> 
> **dai-chichi:** I just finished a batch of anpan. Happy to share!  
>  **dai-chichi:** kuroo pls stop changing my name >:|
> 
> **kuroo:** no <3
> 
> **bokuto:** don’t cook, kaashi!! we can pick up food!!  
>  **bokuto:** be there soon!!

#

Forty-five minutes later, Bokuto throws open the unlocked door and leads the way into the apartment. Daichi follows with a container of curry buns while Kuroo trails behind, armed with a concerning amount of Thai food. Akaashi offers tea or water. Kuroo beelines straight for the coffeemaker, humming happily at the prospect of his favorite drug. Soon the four are settled around the table. Akaashi swallows. He can still taste lemon on his tongue. 

“What’s up?” Kuroo asks, watching him closely over the rim of his mug. 

Akaashi breathes in, then rips the band-aid off. “I’ve been in touch with Tsukishima.” 

A small, tense silence. Kuroo is the first to speak up, though he keeps his voice hushed. “Did you call him? Or did he call you?” 

“I thought he couldn’t get texts or calls? Something about international messaging rates?” Bokuto cuts in, fidgeting until Daichi places a soothing hand on his thigh. 

Scooting his pineapple fried rice around on his plate, Akaashi searches from the right words and finds none. He folds his napkin onto the table and retrieves _The Collected Works_ from the top shelf. He pulls out six postcards and lays them gently on the center of the table.

His friends stare, a mixture of emotions at war on their faces. Bokuto’s eyes are wide, the full breadth of his hopefulness and concern readable to everyone. Kuroo is guarded, suspicious. Daichi looks disquieted. 

“Can we…” He gestures to the postcards. Akaashi nods. Daichi picks up the stack and passes two to Kuroo and two to Bokuto. They examine in silence. 

Akaashi takes a deep drink of tea. “They started showing up about six weeks ago. They come in pairs — he probably goes to town irregularly and mails more than one at once.” 

Kuroo flips them back to front, searching for something he doesn’t find. “He doesn’t ask you to write him back? No _call me_ or _here’s my email_?” 

“I’m not sure he’s doing this for me, Kuroo-san,” Akaashi says quietly. His throat feels tight. He can’t stand the pitying looks. “His notes — I think this is everything he — he didn’t feel comfortable telling me.” 

“Bullshit!” Kuroo snaps. He shoves his postcards at Bokuto like he doesn’t trust himself to hold them any longer. “This is not on you. He shouldn’t be dumping all of this on you and then leaving you to handle the fallout.” 

Bokuto speaks up tentatively. “Maybe Tsukki is...reaching out? Trying to be friends?” 

“He’s _being_ a fucking brat!” 

Daichi clears his throat. He pulls out his wallet and thumbs out a few thousand yen. “Kuroo, could you run down the block and grab us some wine?” 

“I’m fine.” Kuroo is not fine. He crosses his arms, his tone biting. “You don’t have to send me off to calm down.” 

As Daichi frowns and leans over to whisper in his ear, Bokuto nudges Akaashi’s arm. Turning to his friend, Akaashi bites the inside of his cheek at the sight of Bokuto, shoulders slumped, every inch of him wilted and anxious. 

“Do you think he still loves you?” he asks, shuffling nervously through the postcards. He touches them like he wishes, somehow, that he could comfort Tsukishima too. “Tsukki sounds hurt.”

Before he can reply, Kurro stands abruptly and storms out of the apartment. The door slams shut behind him. Akaashi shrinks miserably into his chair. 

“Don’t worry,” Daichi advises. He glances at Bokuto, who perks up. “Koutarou?”

“I got him. Be right back.” Bokuto leaves the postcards next to his plate. He grabs both his jacket and Kuroo’s and goes after his love. 

The silence isn’t uncomfortable. Daichi rubs his head. When he speaks, he sounds tired. “It was hard for Kuroo to see your heart break. I think it’s harder now, knowing that his _other_ best friend is in pain too. And admittedly, being very selfish.” 

“You think so?” Akaashi picks absently at his food.

Daichi pauses thoughtfully, weighing his words. “I’ve never been too close with Tsukishima-kun, but I know that if he doesn’t want to do something, he doesn’t try. Especially if it’s embarrassing to him. To see him be so vulnerable — this is certainly important to him. Whether you let him back in is up to you though, Akaashi-san. Not anyone else.” 

That sentiment — and the steadfast way he says it — makes Akaashi smile fleetingly. His edges feel smoothed. For the first time since the morning it happened, he speaks about the breakup without feeling like he’s coughing up rocks. 

“It was mutual,” he says softly. “He pulled the trigger, but I gave up. It was a mercy killing.” 

Daichi nods slowly. “How do you feel now?” 

“After he left, I felt numb. Now? Scared. A little angry. Sad. Hopeful. I think I’ve _been_ those things for a while, I just couldn’t feel them clearly. I needed something to shake them loose.” 

“Maybe Tsukishima feels the same.” Daichi frowns, his brows pinched pensively together. “That would be poetic, if he needed an excavation to dig up his own feelings.” 

A laugh, small but real, startles out of Akaashi. His hand flies to cover his mouth. Daichi flushes and chuckles. “Sorry, I’m not the best at this.” 

“Should I have called Sugawara-san?” 

“He’s still _scouting venues_ in San Juan. I hope you started saving. Plane tickets won’t be cheap.” 

“He’s going to make us all fly to Argentina for the wedding?” 

“His _fiancé_ is going to make us all fly to Argentina for the wedding.” He shudders in horror. “I think Suga mentioned a chapel on a mountain? And live animals?” 

Akaashi laughs again. He holds the postcards to his chest and doesn’t feel mauled by his past failures. The paper is just paper.

Bokuto and Kuroo return bearing wine and ice cream and apologies. Kuroo even allows Akaashi to choose a movie. Even when he selects _The Fast & The Furious _, Kuroo sits on his hands and does not reach for the remote. 

He _does_ grumble under his breath about boring action flicks until Daichi pulls him into his lap and kisses his cheek every time a car engine audibly revs. 

Akaashi watches his friends: the way Daichi combs his fingers through Bokuto’s hair, so soft and reverent the other man barely twitches. The way Bokuto sprawls peacefully on top of them both, his arm hooked around Kuroo’s thighs. The way Kuroo goes kitten-soft, curled against Daichi’s shoulder. 

The love between them is constant as the sunrise and just as soft. Akaashi waits for the usual twinge of pain, but the hole in his chest is no longer cold and dark. He watches his friends. A small something within him blooms. 

#

On the first warm day of spring, Akaashi knocks on the door of the first floor apartment. His landlady answers. There is flour on her apron. A canary sings in its brass wire cage in the room beyond her stout shoulders. 

Akaashi bows in greeting and holds out a neatly paperclipped packet of papers. “Pardon me, Mayumi-san. I brought my lease agreement.” 

“You are renewing? Good.” She flips through the packet. “Just your name on the lease, this time?” 

“Ah, yes.” He claps his hands in front of him to prevent fidgeting. “Thank you for your patience while I decided.” 

Mayumi swats him with the papers, rolling her eyes. “Enough formalities. Come back in an hour and I will have fresh dango. You’ll have to come down and fetch it yourself, though. I’m far too beautiful for stairs.” 

Akaashi grins and agrees. He collects his mail and tucks it beneath his arm without looking. He doesn’t realize that Mayumi’s door is still open until she clears her throat. “You can always add names onto your lease,” she reminds him. Her gaze is shrewd but kind. “Just ask.”

“Thank you, Mayumi-san.” 

On the second floor landing, his phone pings. 

> **kenma:** I want to show you this before anyone else (kuroo) can spring it on you  
>  **kenma:** _image2039.jpg_

The attachment loads. It’s a picture of a flyer on the train: a futuristic background, cybernetic lines and circles, over which is the text _Digital Horizons: Professional Speaker Series_ . _Listen to geoarchaeologist Saito Hirohito discuss the results of his research in Indonesia and its implications on the future of cultural site preservation in Japan. Tickets required. Light drinks and refreshments will be served._

It lists a date, a time, and the logo for the Tokyo National Museum. 

Akaashi sits down in the middle of the staircase. A hot patch of late spring sunlight falls across his legs. 

> **akaashi keiji:** that’s tsukishima’s expedition 
> 
> **kenma:** yes. there’s more information on the website. 

He zooms in on the image, double checks the date. 

> **akaashi keiji:** that’s two days from now
> 
> **kenma:** yes. are you okay?

He thinks, clutching his phone in his lap. His heart picks up and his palms sweat but what he feels is not fear or shame, but...uncertainty. Anticipation. 

> **akaashi keiji:** yes, i’m okay
> 
> **kenma:** do you want to go?
> 
> **akaashi keiji:** I’m not sure
> 
> **kenma:** let me know what you decide. We will all go with you. 

He smiles at the screen. 

> **akaashi keiji:** thank you, dear friend

He lets out a long breath and blinks against the glare of the sun. For a moment, he simply exists between one floor and the next. He flips through the mail and brushes his fingers across the postcard between his magazines.

Tsukishima Kei is back in Tokyo. This will be the last postcard. 

Leaning his shoulder against the banister, he reads. 

#

  
  


**vii. yellow tulip  
** in your smile, there is light

_(golden petals lay in an almost translucent fan across the paper. oblong leaves, the bright green of spring, lay gently around the joyful bloom. it speaks of beginnings, of tenderness, of life after the rain.)_

  
  


**Shinzen High, Saitama Prefecture  
** **July, 2012**

“Akaashi-san, could I speak with you?” 

He lowers his water bottle and glances over his shoulder. Tsukishima hovers near the sideline, cleaning his glasses on the edge of his shirt. Behind him, Hinata and Lev race to fill the ball buggy while Bokuto and Kuroo dismantle the net. Tsukishima looks as unaffected as ever except for the barely detectable tension in his shoulders that Akaashi notices because he has spent the last several nights memorizing the elegant geometry of Tsukishima Kei. 

The tension spreads, a rictus of the arms. Akaashi realizes he hasn’t answered. “Of course. What is it?” 

“Tsukki!” Kuroo lopes over, hands on his hips. It seems he has tricked Bokuto into finishing cleanup on his own. Kuroo throws an arm around Tsukishima’s shoulders and whines, “If you need volleyball advice, you’re supposed to ask me. I’m your magnanimous teacher!” 

Ducking quickly away, Tsukishima glares. “Duly noted. Please don’t touch me.” 

It’s not remotely a challenge but Kuroo takes it as such, inching after Tsukishima with his fingers pinching like crab claws. Akaashi prepares to intervene when, to his surprise, Hinata sprints across the gym and clings to Kuroo’s arm. It is a testament to the small boy’s natural charm that Kuroo doesn’t immediately toss him off. 

“Wah, Kuroo-san! It’s super dark outside, I can’t remember how to get back to my classroom. You have to walk me there!” 

Lev follows, a pout on his face. “I can walk you, Hinata!” 

“No! Kuroo-san is an upperclassman. It’s his responsibility.” 

Bokuto’s laugh echoes up to the ceiling. He drops the third gym key down the back of Kuroo’s shirt and pulls Hinata to safety as Kuroo shrieks. _“I’ll_ show you. I’m way braver than Kuroo anyways.” 

“Oh, bullshit, I’m fearless,” Kuroo hisses. He’s twisted half-backwards, one arm reaching up his shirt. “Where’d the key go?” 

“Check your ass, bro.” 

Akaashi touches Tsukishima softly on the shoulder, nodding towards the exit. “After you.” Louder, his eyes narrowed, he glances out the side of his eyes at his other friends. “Please remember to check the door after you lock it.” 

“No problem, ‘Kaashi!” Bokuto waves goodnight, then points at Kuroo with a gleeful cackle. “Dude, the key’s in your shoe.”

 _“How?”_

Outside, the noise of the gym rolls into the noise of nature, the reverberation of night bugs in the bushes. It’s late, the midnight moon fat and full with a smoky shroud of clouds. Tsukishima waits for him under the walkway, right at the edge where concrete cuts off to grass. Not for the first time, Akaashi is struck by the symmetry of his face, the graceful way he holds his hands in front of him. Akaashi stands beside him and watches his expression, for context and for the simple joy of it. 

“You are improving quickly, Tsukishima,” he says, sincere. 

“Thank you. The additional practice helps. Don’t tell the others I said that.” 

“Of course not.” 

Tsukishima has been fidgety all night. Now, whatever burden he carries rattles almost audibly inside of him. Akaashi watches him pick nervously at the athletic tape on his fingers for a beat, then clears his throat. “Would you like to walk for a bit?” 

Tsukishima glances at him in wordless relief. He nods. 

This is not his first summer in Saitama, so Akaashi takes the lead. They stroll in silence in the opposite direction of the doors. The path loops between gyms until they reach a small courtyard tucked between storage sheds. Two concrete benches form a right angle, shaded by the youngish tree growing at the corner where they meet. Akaashi sits on the edge of one bench. Tsukshima hesitates, debates, and lowers himself slowly into the seat next to him. 

Perhaps his reticence should annoy Akaashi, given it was Tsukishima who asked to speak to begin with. 

Tsukishima continues to pick at his fingers. Akaashi holds out his hand. “May I help with that? I’ve done it before, for Bokuto-san.” 

He should be annoyed, but Akaashi isn’t heartless. He is in fact the opposite: a boy with too much heart. 

The other hesitates but slowly rests his palm against Akaashi’s, letting him steady his arm while he begins to gently tease apart the tape.

“You do a lot for Bokuto-san,” Tsukishima observes. 

“He is a close friend and a phenomenal player.” An edge comes loose. Akaashi tightens his grip and unwinds, layer by layer. “I am happy to do my part to help him bloom.” 

“It’s very kind of you. Are you that nice to all of your friends?” 

Ah. 

This is not the first time his relationship with Bokuto has been misunderstood as something romantic. An easy mistake to make. Even his own teammates at Fukurodani crack the occasional joke or glance sideways at him when he picks up Bokuto’s jacket or swaps his empty water bottle for a cold one. 

This is the first time, however, that this particular misunderstanding makes Akaashi’s stomach twist. 

“What did you want to talk about, Tsukishima-san?” 

The used tape sits in a pile on the bench between them. Akaashi does not put down his hand. The moonlight turns Tsukishima’s hair to the palest gold spooled like jewelry wire around his neck and ears. His eyes are wide and anxious behind his glasses. 

Out of all the reactions Akaashi expects, fear is not one of them. He backpedals. “Is something-?” 

“Please accept my feelings, Akaashi-san.” 

Akaashi sits very still. Like a startled bird, Tsukishima jolts to his feet. 

“I’m so sorry,” he begins and tries to tug away. Akaashi reaches out, holds one beautiful hand between two of his own. Even Tsukishima’s calluses are soft. 

He tilts his chin up to watch Tsukishima’s face. His own eyes are half-lidded but earnest. He can feel the way Tsukishima’s pulse flutters beneath the pliant skin of his wrist. “Don’t you want to hear my response?” 

“You...seem very close to Bokuto-san,” Tsukishima says haltingly. 

The pieces click into place: Tsukishima’s sideways prodding at the nature of his relationship with Bokuto. Not out of judgement, but curiosity. Hope. 

“I am not dating Bokuto-san. He isn’t quite my type.” Akaashi smiles, wry. It takes two gentle tugs on Tsukishima’s arm to loosen the knot of anxiety in the blonde’s chest and guide him back to the bench. This time they sit much closer, their knees brushing. “Bokuto is genuine. He’s like a potted plant. Charming and comforting. In the right conditions and for the right person, he will flower beautifully.”

Absently, his finger traces nonsense shapes on Tsukishima’s palm. “I want a partner with _gardens_ in their mind.”

Tsukishima ducks his chin and looks pleased. It makes Akaashi flush with delight...and consider his next thought with great care. 

“We shouldn’t start anything yet,” he says and when Tsukishima looks at him in confusion, he squeezes his hand tightly. “Will you wait for me? Until after Nationals?” 

“Will you still be interested after Nationals?” 

“I doubt that will be an issue. Do you have your phone?” 

Tsukishima pats his pocket and frowns. “Ah, no. It’s in my overnight bag.” 

“Let’s exchange numbers tomorrow.” 

“I thought we weren’t starting anything, Akaashi-san.” 

“Texting about our days is not the kind of _thing_ I’m worried about starting.” Emboldened and giddy, he rubs his thumb along the bolt of Tsukishima’s jaw. “You shouldn’t encourage me to do more than that.” 

“Ah.” He is so adorably pink. 

Akaashi grins and offers to walk him back. They retrace their steps. It’s well past curfew now, cool and shadowed beneath the sheltered walkway. Tsukishima walks closer to him than before. Akaashi itches to take his hand but that seems unfair in light of their agreement. Even if he wants very badly to loop himself around Tsukishima’s arm, like a schoolgirl in a shoujo manga. Just for a few seconds, while no one else can see them. 

A thought occurs to him. “Did Hinata know you wanted to confess?” he asks, thinking of the way the other first year expertly distracted Kuroo. 

Tsukishima blushes. He gives a roundabout answer. “Does that upset you?” 

“No,” Akaashi says honestly. “I had no idea you were so close.” 

“We aren’t. Yamaguchi claimed he was finally going to text _his_ crush. I called his bluff. So he sent the text right in front of me and then ordered me to confess to you.” Tsukishima waves a hand dismissively, as though the events described are nothing of consequence and not the reason his ears are red. “Hinata overheard and offered to help me get you alone. I _said_ I didn’t want his help.” 

When they reach the stairwell door — kindly propped open with a piece of broken brick, thank you, Kuroo — Tsukishima slows to a stop. He looks almost bashful. 

“Do you really like me too?” he asks, in an atypical moment of self-consciousness. 

“Would you like proof?” 

Before he was a bird; now he freezes, rabbitlike. His eyes are luminous coins in the night. He nods. 

Gentling him with a hand on his arm, Akaashi leans up and presses a sweet, dry kiss to his half-parted lips. When he pulls away, they both blush down their necks. In unison, they glance away, only to look back again. It stirs a giggle out of Akaashi and a broken laugh out of Tsukishima.

He drags his hand all the way down Tsukishima’s willowy arm and pets through the tangle of his fingers one last time. “I look forward to learning you, Tsukishima-kun.” 

The walk back to Karasuno’s classroom-turned-dorm is quiet but happy. As soon as they round the corner, Akaashi sees Yamaguchi clamor to his feet and all but throw himself at Tsukishima. The freckled boy clutches his cell phone to his chest.

“Tsukki, he’s texting back, _help me!”_

Akaashi smiles, stepping aside. “Goodnight, Tsukishima-kun, Yamaguchi-san.” 

He bows politely and leaves the pair to solve Yamaguchi’s texting drama. He hears Yamaguchi ask something and though Tsukishima is too quiet to hear clearly, the satisfaction is his voice travels. 

Akaashi hides a smile behind his hand. There is no one around to see but this joy is meant only for him — and the boy watching him leave. 

#

The note on the back of the postcard reads as follows:

_Keiji —_

_If you get this before May 11, please come. You’ve waited long enough. I have too. Let’s start something new._

_I’ll leave a ticket in your name._

_— Kei_

#

**Present Day**

The moon is just beginning to rise when Akaashi meets Kuroo and Kenma outside the Heiseikan, home of the Japanese Archeological Gallery. Tonight, they are his sole supports. Daichi is on call at the fire station, Bokuto is called away to a last-minute sponsorship dinner. It was decided, to Hinata’s relief, that he would not have to sit through _the really long lecture about computers and rocks._

Kuroo fiddles with his suit jacket, as effortlessly stylish as always in tailored pants and a soft grey shirt. Beside him, Kenma looks docile in their fitted dress and sheer embroidered jacket, deceptively doll-like except for the spike through their septum and the black clawed manicure on their nails that click as they scroll through their phone. 

Akaashi checks his watch, smoothing a hand over his maroon sweater. “Sorry, the trains are late.” 

“I doubt there’s a crowd.” Kuroo shrugs, and rolls his eyes when Kenma glares. “What? On a Monday night?” 

Inside the Heiseikan and across the lobby, an employee in a black polo means a small ticket table. Kenma and Kuroo hand off their tickets. When it’s his turn, Akaashi steps up and clears his throat. 

“There should be a ticket set aside?” 

“Name, sir?” 

“Akaashi Keiji.” 

They flip through a small stack of envelopes and withdraw one from the middle. Inside is a single ticket. They tear off the stub and hand it over with a polite smile. 

“The talk will begin on the second floor gallery, just up the stairs. Refreshments are available to the left.” 

He nods his thanks and follows his friends upstairs. The gallery is a long, narrow room with rows of cushioned chairs facing a large projector screen. There is a podium off to the side. A surprising number of people mill around. He catches Kuroo begrudgingly slipping Kenma ¥200. They tuck the coins in their purse with a satisfied smirk. 

Kuroo finds empty seats near the back. He claims it’s so he can sneak away and grab champagne if the talk is exceptionally boring, but Akaashi knows it’s for him. In case he needs to leave. 

At 8:00 PM exactly, the lights dim over the audience. On the brightened stage, an elegant middle-aged woman wheels herself out in front of the projector, a wireless microphone in her hand. She parks her chair in front of the crowd and gives a beatific smile. 

“Welcome! It is a pleasure to see so many faces here tonight. Thank you for joining us on this next installment of our Professional Speakers Series. Before we begin, let’s give a sincere thanks to our Board of Trustees…” 

She lists a number of names and sponsors. Akaashi doesn’t listen, because Tsukishima is there.

The blonde enters quietly, easing the side door shut behind him. The lights are too dim to make out any details beyond the sharp cut of his linen jacket over his shoulders or the waves of his hair as the projector lights line them bluish white. He moves with confidence as he slips behind the podium to cue up the presentation. 

The woman, whom he thinks might be the President of something important, announces, “Let’s welcome our speaker tonight, Saito Hirohito-san.” 

Another man takes the stage. He could be seven feet tall with green hair and Akaashi wouldn’t know. He speaks with enthusiasm and humor. The crowd reacts and laughs in turn. Akaashi tries not to stare at Tsukishima the whole time — but if he blinks, he fears Tsukishima will vanish, once again out of sight. 

At one point, Tsukishima looks up. Across the crowd of shadowed heads, their eyes meet. Akaashi cannot read his expression behind the glare off his glasses, but he feels the weight of his gaze. Akaashi looks back, hands folded tightly in his lap, and thinks as loudly as he can: _I’m here, I’m here, I’m here._

By the time the lights come up and the audience applauds, Akaashi is vibrating in his seat. Kenma rests a cool hand on his arm. “Will you come with me to find some water?” 

“Sure,” he agrees, then realizes how dry his throat is. He shoots a grateful glance at Kenma. They return a small, knowing smile.

Together, they hunt down glass goblets of ice water. Kuroo gets sucked into a surprisingly avid conversation about the Emperor’s son and the latest royal drama. Kenma drifts towards the back of the room. They wait with Akaashi as the crowd up front thins. Saito schmoozes and shakes hands. Tsukishima is nowhere to be seen. 

At length, Kenma excuses themself to call Hinata. Akaashi sets his empty glass on a nearby table. The sight of finger foods make his stomach turn, however appetizing the presentation. He wonders if he can justify champagne on an empty stomach — 

“Akaashi-san?” 

That familiar voice washes down his back like rain water. He is parched for more. He turns around. 

Tsukishima is nine months older and _tanned._ He has freckles on his nose, a sophisticated undercut, and a small tattoo of a dragonfly on the meat of his thumb. He looks at Akaashi through the same glasses, picking at his nails in that same nervous way. Akaashi grabs his hands, feels his new callouses. Smoothes a thumb over the tattoo. There are stories in these hands. 

The world blurs as his eyes go watery. Where are his words? He lifts these beautiful hands and presses the knuckles to his forehead. 

“Kei,” he chokes.

Tsukishima steps close enough that he feels his breath against their joined hands. “Please don’t apologize, or — don’t forgive me yet, either. I have so much to say. I’m sorry about the postcards. It wasn’t romantic, it was cruel, and I — I….”

Akaashi looks up at his love’s helpless expression. He sees in those eyes that which the mouth fails to say. Without words, he untangles their hands and pulls Tsukishima into his arms. Chest to chest, his face against his collar. He can feel their hearts beat wildly together. 

“Kei,” he says again, dizzy with relief. He is not healed, not fixed, but — Tsukishima is no longer the sailor, and he is no longer the lighthouse. No longer the left and leaving. At last they can give metaphors back to poetry and talk face to face. 

Tsukishima pulls back, a tremulous smile blooming on the corner of his mouth.

“Can we talk?” he asks, but what he means is, _forgive me._

Akaashi starts nodding before he can finish his sentence. He clings to Tsukishima and Tsukishima clings back. Akaashi has no spare hands to wipe away the tears spilling down his cheeks but he refuses to let go of the man keeping him anchored to the earth. 

“Come back to the apartment. I’ll make tea,” he says, but what he means is, _welcome home._

The rolling snow  
gets bright peach juice poured into it,  
the moon unmelted in the blue sky  
purring gently to heaven  
drinks once again the diffused light

_“Those who have gone to the other side, enlightenment, be happy.”_

— from _daybreak_ , by miyazawa kenji

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! kudos and comments (even a simple <3) are deeply appreciated. this author responds to comments! 
> 
> i do feel it necessary to clarify that i love the fast & the furious movies. kuroo just has shit taste.


End file.
